Release
by Spirare
Summary: Many years after Bella's 18th birthday party, Jasper returns to Forks and discovers a secret letter. Will he follow his heart? A cluttered commentary in prose.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: SM owns all things Twilight.

A/N: I wrote this because lifelesslyndsey wrote a beautiful o/s called Hush Little Baby (go read it!) and it made me want to write something poetic. I have no real plans beyond this chapter, but I needed to put it on paper. Hope you enjoy.

**Chapter One: Jasper's Letter**

Dear Jasper, 

_No, scratch that… that's not right…  
_

My dearest Jasper, 

_Much better…_

This is my release. A cluttered commentary on life, my life. A secret love letter. For you._  
_  
Soap stained the sky orange this morning and beautiful blue bubbles led me home. Alliterations. Bah. But I lost you again. I lost you and I lose you all the time now. Everyday. And I'm driving to your old house. I'm driving and I drive and I play mixed cd's of our songs. You know… _our_ songs. Yours. Mine. Alone.

Anyhow, I play our songs and sing along.

Bastard. You made me rhyme. You know I hate that.

Back on track, I sing our songs and I hope. I hope, I hope, I hope… But I shouldn't, should I? I shouldn't hope, or cry, or touch, or love, or care… But I do. And you _felt _it once.

And I can't stop it anymore than you can. Can't stop it now, couldn't stop it then.

But you belong to her. Her and not me. Never me.

Pen against paper. We drew the lines, tracing over the old and into something new. The beauty of the line, the longing that someone out there is listening… You listened once. You spoke. _You are worth it. _And I found you. _You are worth it. _I found you and you found me and when I found you, it was a dream, or dream-like, and for the briefest of moments you revealed where you hid yourself and you were so near I could touch you and so far I could never really reach you.

So, what to do? What to do, what to do?

Sleep, I guess. Dream. At least I can. This is my madness, my love; this is my whisper in the blackest night: Hope.

I'm thinking and thoughts or words or both swim like sharks at the first smell of blood.

Sharks or vampires, I suppose.

I'm thinking or dreaming and you or I or we speak without breathing and speak without speaking. The old insert-foot-in-mouth routine. Again. And we say we don't mind and slip with such simplicity back into the same old pattern of unspoken whys and unnamed what-ifs. Wake, school, lunch, school, home, sleep, wake, etc. etc.

The easy part; for you to want only this, for me to criticize it when I could, should, could easily have more. When I just might be, may be, am not your soul mate.

You're eyes remain fixed, constant, ambivalent, posing serious questions. Have you set these lines in pencil? Can they be moved? Erased?

No. Never. Of course not. It's only a dream.

You see, I know. I know more often than not the north winds blow and the dreams shatter across the four corners. Both the darkness and the gods roam, picking up the pieces... just to break them again. Understand? Even they are searching. For the lost dream, for the failed purpose. For a soul mate. Just like all the rest of us. 

You don't know this, never knew this, but sometimes I take long walks on clear winter nights just to watch the stars fall. Just to watch stars fall and make wishes that won't ever come true. To watch the moon and know its' secrets.

And I've seen him or saw him once... The man on the street who dances with the moon in his heart. And I'm the only one who knows it's not a joke... I'm the only one who knows it's a journey - To be able to stand in the sunlight -just laughing. And I loved you and love you still. Who you are and who you will be, or never be, but for now, for always, I guess, the nights, these dreams and other stolen moments are mine... and I'll thrive in the shadows.

Or I'll try.

Would you let me?

No. Never. Of course not.

You belong to her now. Her and not me. Never me.

I want to tell you a story.

I had this teacher, ninth grade art back in Phoenix, and she swore she was a butterfly in her past life. Crazy, right? I thought so too... Until I met a man walking down First St. who told me he was a fucking caterpillar, just waiting to transform.

Coincidence?

I dunno, man. Angela, you remember Angela - that skinny bitch that I used to sit next to at lunch. Anyway, Angela always said that there were no coincidences. She called herself a bystander, remember? She listened to all of us ramble, took notes with her eyes. Angela was always the poet I wished I could be.

Anyhow, transformations. Once I had this dream, no scratch that - not a dream, an epiphany, a fucking revelation or some shit like that. And you were there, transformed, because once you leave - you're never the same. And I was there and my heart wasn't broken and nothing was broken and your love remained fixed and never stumbled and the light was midnight blue and the music was something sweet because love is the winter moon and dreams make up seventy-three percent of the Earth.

I told Angela, over too much caffeine and too many cigarettes, that they (you know - them, the dreams, etc.) stopped making sense after you left. The dreams I dreamed on those midnight blue days - shit, man, they belong to the Mother Star. 

Remember? The one that fell the day we were born. I mean, really born. Or reborn. And Angela smiled cause she knew this as we all do when the choices are no longer ours. And she sighed because I was once her and we knew the way the world worked. She sighed and you know what she said? She said:

_I've seen this city sleep - or never sleep - and wake(?) in the cruel hours just before dawn. It's soft machinery slowly whirring, slowly starting, slowing whispering: They've forgotten the truth here.  
_  
After you left I could hear it. It's insides begging to remind us. It's guts yearning to spill over... Infect... Destroy... Start again...

Sometimes the truth is buried so deep, not even the Earth remembers the original lie. Until it's forced to scream. And even the Mother Star cries.

My point is this: It's all a transformation. Everything. Life, death, love. Well, especially love.

What was it I said?

I said the fire's burning and the city sleeps. I said we don't dream here and nobody dreams here and the walls that keep the "real you" safe - well, Angela, or someone like her breaks them down... burning without coincidence. I said, spring in Astoria, and the Earth stopped screaming and the Mother Star is reborn and something new, something almost beautiful, almost fucking beautiful, is born. I said everything happens for a reason because dreams make up seventy-three percent of the Earth.

I said something extraordinary. I said: soul mates. 

I meant it. I mean it still.

Do you want to know a secret?

Last Sunday, I took a stroll down to the corner market. I took a stroll and whistled the songs with no words and big meanings and somewhere between the a flat and the d sharp the radio in my head flickered on and a chorus of new notes reminded me of every butterfly I'd ever watched die.

Not the point.

The point is this; I was walking and I looked into the soul of a man I could, should, would never love. This is cheating. I know. Discovering is part of the journey. The journey and the joke. So I tried not to look and bought cigarettes instead, inhaling profoundly whistling a song until it became only a chorus and a secret, an unrealistic wish:

_I want to be a superhero so that I can save you from yourself._

I wonder and ponder and wander and ponder: How did this happen? 

But then I remember how it began...

I let myself stumble, just for a moment, one moment and when i looked up, into your eyes, in an unfamiliar room nowhere near home, the fractures in the universe that had torn my soul and bled me nearly dry, had begun to mend and then i knew, understood, I had spent so much time maintaining the lie, i had forgotten the dream. It's funny how the smallest things can change the whole world, a word, a look, a touch. And suddenly as whole and wide as the world once was, it's brighter when the whispers in my ear, the words that fill my heart are yours and even that faraway look in your eye is only for me. I wish that it was.

I looked into your eyes and I know you felt what I felt and knew what I knew. I know you saw into my soul, just as I saw into yours. However briefly.

Anyway, you said something simple, so fucking simple. _You are worth it. _So simple, so simply spoken, so simply dismissed and later when I lied, I lied and was tricked and trapped and a thousand regrets burned my nerves so thin, I forgot to breathe and every old thought, every unanswered question, every fiery desire flooded back through my veins like wave upon wave upon wave, conquering my unprepared vessel. Later when I was burning and bleeding and you were ripping, and you were burning the one who made me burn and bleed, I remembered. And it wasn't so simple after all.

I didn't belong to you then. Yet. I do now, I did then without knowing. Even if you belonged to her. Her and not me. Never me. And always you.

And I was jealous then. So fucking jealous. Jealous of the waif-like slip of a girl with the spiky hair and invisible pixie wings that fluttered violently when she didn't get her way. Even after the burning and the bleeding stopped. I couldn't let myself belong to you, not then, because I was jealous and he said forever. He, him, the boy that was once perfect and in control said forever and I believed him and I wanted forever.

Don't we all?

So I pretended that I was his because he said love and he said forever and I fucking wanted it. Turns out I was a better liar than I thought. Because as I pretended, I believed. And because I believed, he and you and everyone believed.

But when that night came, _that fucking night_, and I didn't want to be there but the pixie wings fluttered and the boy who said love and forever and was perfect and in control said _we'll be there. _I didn't want to be there but there I was. Only I could turn a party into a death sentence.

I smiled and pretended, I was good at pretending. I smiled and accepted. I made a mistake. Not the first, not the last and not a mistake so much as an unforeseeable accident.

And it was a death sentence. Just not mine. I could and would and did live through it. It was a death sentence. The death of possibilities.

It was just one moment. A slip of paper across my skin. A drop of blood. He pushed. You lunged. Time stopped.

I forgave and understood but then he still left me and you left me and everyone left me because sharks and vampires and drops of blood. He and you and everyone left and you were gone before I ever admitted I wanted you there. And I broke without bleeding.

Whether you realize it now or not, you broke too.

At first I thought he broke me. I had good arguments for this. He had said love and he had said forever and I fucking wanted that. He lied. But it wasn't just him. He only said the words that I presumed and assumed were truth. It took nightmares and screams and Angela, who was always the poet I wished I could be and time, so much time before I knew. I knew and knowledge is power.

I'm not sure how I knew, but I knew. It wasn't unforeseeable at all. It was foreseen and it was an accident and a mistake and a push and a not-so-white lie. The lies crashed down around me just as his blood lust crashed into you that night. The lies crashed and not just the waif-girl's lies or the once perfect and in control boy's lies. But my lies too. I should have told you from the beginning, from the moment our eyes met in an unfamiliar room nowhere near home. I should have then and wish I could now. I loved you and love you still. And if you ever find this letter, you will know.

Just as I know you belong to her. Her and not me. Never me.

But at least now you'll know.

I leave this sleepy little town today. I leave to find myself and find new ways to breathe because this sleepy little town is suffocating. I leave and I don't know where you are, but I wanted you to know. I wanted you to know of the lies and mistakes and love. I don't know where you are so all I can do is leave this letter in your old study and hope that one day you'll find it and know what I know.

Because knowledge is power and love is power and I want you to have that.

You'll always have my heart.

~Bella


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: All things Twilight belong to SM.

A/N: I didn't really plan to continue this story, but it came out. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter Two: How Jasper Came to Forks**

The fight, you know, the fight, our fight, _this last battle_, was all white and sirens and noiseless secret movements. Noiseless secrets. A constant push-pull to crack each lie open, to break each lie wide open. To expose the truth.

There were so many lies and so little truth those days. So little truth. So many lies that every lie had some truth until it was the only truth left.

They, them, my _family_, they stood on the sidelines saying nothing and everything without actually saying anything. On the sidelines they sat, the father, the mother, the brother, the sister. They sat and sheltered the new girl. The new girl that had replaced the old girl, who was neither old nor replaceable. They sat and sheltered and watched the battle, not speaking but not hiding their antipathy. They watched, five white marble pillars, surrounding three. Surrounding one boy, one girl and me.

The girl, the small girl, the ethereal fairy, the girl that once upon a time saved me and loved me and gave me hope that I had not known for a century. I had not known salvation or love or hope and she gave it freely.

Who knew free had such a cost!

And the boy! The stupid little boy who caused the lies, the boy who began and caused the lies and pain and knew not the meaning of privacy. He was a plague of indignation and self-importance, not caring, never caring about privacy and those around him.

And me, the fool. The once great master of fury and wrath, war and death. Once great and now just a fool.

I looked to her, the small girl, and I knew she lied, she lied and I knew. I didn't know, couldn't have guessed how long she'd been lying, but she knew that I knew. She seemed so small. So small in both size and importance. How did I not notice, blind as I was? Surely this little fairy belongs to the Unseelie Court now, the Unblessed Court. Maybe she always had. Maybe she always had chosen harm over help. How was I to know, blind as I was? Blinded by salvation and love and hope and belief in happy endings. Blind.

And still she lied, even knowing that I knew. And he still lied. She lied to keep me in her control. He lied to keep his status, to keep the new girl, whose beauty was less and whose thoughts were less but open. Less than the old girl. If I had listened to myself, really listened I would have known how much I missed the old girl, who was beauty and depth and not replaceable. She was missed and loved, missed by not just me.

I couldn't, wouldn't blame the new girl. She didn't know, couldn't of known. She will now.

I couldn't blame the father or mother or brother or sister. Though they stood on the sidelines, they hurt too.

Finally, the small girl and the little boy relented. They told their story, a story of harm and hurt and pain. They offered their justification, really, truly, really believing that all would be okay.

_It had to happen_ they said. _It was the only way _they said. _She was only human _they said. _It was for our future_ they said. They said these things as if they were understandable, as if these things could excuse the lies and harm and hurt. As if we should all just accept their word as gospel.

But I saw red, bright fucking red, that washed away the white. Red everywhere and I wanted so fucking much to rip and tear and burn. I looked to the father, who was compassion and anger. I looked to the mother, who was love and fury. I looked to the brother, who was strength and outrage. I looked to the sister, who was beauty and hatred. I looked to the new girl, who was new and less and disgusted.

That was punishment enough.

And then the fairy-girl, the small girl had the nerve, the fucking nerve to ask; Forgive?

Well fuck that. I am Major Jasper Whitlock and this shit ends now.

So I left.

And that is how I find myself here, now. Empty. Too empty in front of an empty white house. Too empty and too silent and too full of the past. My past, mine, theirs, hers. It mingled here. Was happy here, once.

I find myself here for a single purpose, though I do not know the purpose. Not completely. But I felt it. Felt the weight of the world. Felt the guesswork of gravity.

The purpose pulls me, calls me, beckons me, pushes me into the house, up the stairs. Pulls, call, beckons and pushes me into my old study.

There is something amiss here. Something that doesn't belong, never belonged and always belonged but was never here in this room.

I search, nostrils flaring, trying to find that which never and always belonged. I search, rows and rows of the stacks, rows and rows of my books. Each familiar, known, safe and comforting. Rows and rows until...

This is not mine. I own it, to be sure, but this is worn and tattered and read more times than not. And it is not mine but hers, the girl who was beauty and more and not replaceable and I wonder how it came to be here, where it clearly should not be, but somehow belongs.

I trace the cover of her book, her book, her favorite book. The flowers that are her filling my mind and my room are reminders, are lost and errant thoughts and feelings. I crack it open stiffly, and wonder when the last time she opened it was, wonder what it's doing here in my room.

"_Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightening, or frost from fire."_

She has underlined this, as if she meant it to convey something to me. To me and me alone. It is in my room so surely it must be meant for me and not the stupid little boy. But perhaps the emptiness and smell of her in my room where she never and always belonged is getting to me.

A slip of white falls from the book to the floor to my hand, a slip of white. Not a bookmark, not something to keep her place, but a letter.

Curious, curious, curious. I read. I remember. I know. I remember the unfamiliar room nowhere near home. I remember the moment, that moment, the feelings, the words. They were for me? I only _thought_ those moments were for the stupid little boy? Just as I only _thought _I loved the small girl, who used and lied.

How could I know, blind as I still am?

She loved me once, maybe, possibly loves me still. But she left after we abandoned, abandoned cause that's what it was, and she couldn't tell me and she left. A need grows in me like fire and I read, remember and know. I must find her. She has given me power. I will. I will. I will find her, the girl that loves and forgives and gave me her heart.

With letter in hand, in heart and mind, I dash to a place I know she is not, but used to be. I keep to the woods, to the shadows and trees.

I look to house, which is no longer occupied, not even by her father and am left without hope. Empty and without hope. Again.

I lean against the tree that the stupid little boy who didn't know privacy used to use and I am empty and without hope.

I lean, hand against the tree, tracing the grooves, when I notice. I notice new, but not _new _grooves. New and not natural.

_Angela_

Just one word, but it calls to me. Could it be clue?

I did remember the quiet girl, who was shy and kind and her friend. In a town as small as this, she would not, could not be difficult to locate.

She is not.

I find it, a house with many heartbeats and full of heart and know that this is the place she wanted me to find. For what reasons, I can only guess, but I will not guess, do not need to guess. Answers are just steps away. Steps I gladly take, that I would take a thousand times over if they could lead me to the girl who loved and forgave and gave me her heart.

I knock and a man answers, a man who last I saw was just a boy but is now a man. His eyes appraise me, curiosity and wonder and acceptance. I move to ask for the girl who may or may not have answers but before I can speak, he motions me in and calls, "Ang!"

From up the stairs, the top of the stairs, she appears, a girl no more. A body, swollen with child, swollen with happiness. She is all lightness and amusement as she descends the stairs, her eyes never leaving mine, her amusement never wavering. She stops at a small table, opening drawers, shuffling papers, finding what she needs.

"Well, well, well." She giggles. "If it isn't Jasper Hale. You haven't changed a bit."

"I can't believe she was right. How did she know he would look exactly the same?" He wonders.

It should worry me that they recognize, that they know I haven't changed. Haven't changed at all when they clearly have. Clearly. But she said _she_ and _she_ is beauty and not replaceable and loved me once and maybe, possibly loves me still.

"You know she always knew things, Ben." Angela says, and gives me a look that tells me she knew that her friend was always more than this world. Always better than this world.

"She sent me this years ago. She told us that one day you might come and to give it to you. It was the last we heard from her."

She hands me an envelope, a white rectangle, a lifeline. Pulling, calling, beckoning, pushing me to open and let it's secrets spill. Spill and fill the room, me.

I want to ask her how long ago the girl sent this. I want to ask a million things about the girl. But she hands me the envelope and they, man and wife and children, move to another room. To give me space. To give me breath.

I sit on the chair, trembling hands and fingers and open the white rectangle, full of unknown. Curious, curious, curious. And at that moment, I knew the weight of the world. I knew there was no guesswork in gravity.

**A/N: So here is my vision for this story: The chapters will alternate between Jasper POV and Bella's letters. Most chapters will be relatively short, in fact I'm not even sure how long the story will actually be.**

**There is a reason why I haven't mentioned exactly how long it's been since the Cullens left. I'll give you small clues now and then (like Angela and Ben being married and having more than one kid) but I won't specifically say until the end.**

**The quote is from Wuthering Heights.**

**And for those of you who don't know fairy lore, fairies that were divided into the Unseelie Court are malicious and evil and often enjoy hurting humans.**

**Let me know what you think.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Don't own.**

**A/N: Okay, Bella rambles. I know this. The letters are her thoughts. Completely uncensored, just there on the page. Her thoughts skip and bleed and sometimes don't make sense. There may or may not be a reason for this. *winks***

**As always, hugs and kisses to lifelesslyndsey for being the inspiration to this story. Go read her fics.**

**Chapter Three: The Second Letter**

My dearest Jasper,

Dear, dear, dearest. My love, my love, my love. I sing it. Sing until it becomes song and stays. With me. For eternity.

But first, you should know this is not some nonsensical love song. My love for you. You should know that. Love songs are blue backdrops. Purple persuasions for a yearning population. What this is, is an unlikely comfort. A silly soliloquy of somber simplicity. If only for me. If only.

That's the fucking story of my life. If only. Yours too?

And second, despite what the once perfect boy said in the woods where I was left broken and alone, broken and fucking alone, my mind is _not_ a sieve. Broken, broken, broken, yes, but not a fucking sieve. I remember everything. I remember all the time. Even still.

Even still I think about them, the once perfect boy and the waif-like girl. Even still. I still miss them. Not the control or the pixie wings. But them. You. All of you. I still miss the too-tight hugs of the silly bear, the too-gentle words of the healer, the too-soft touches of the homemaker. Even the too-strong glares of the lioness. I miss them all.

Even now. Even after the once perfect boy tried to destroy me with words and the waif-like girl destroyed you to let the once perfect boy destroy me with words and taunts and lies. They failed and I still miss them.

I miss you.

I was thinking how this all could've been avoided. Could have, would have, should have been avoided if we had all admitted the truth. Admitted the truth to ourselves. Because what if?

What if the waif-like girl had admitted the moon was her power, wax and wane, wax and wane?

What if the once perfect boy had admitted he hated the silence, loved the control and hated the silence?

What if I had admitted I loved you? You and not him, never him.

What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if......

It echoes in my mind until I remember that I hate what ifs. I fucking hate them. I hate what ifs but I remember.

I remember my daddy, who was kind and quiet and quietly kind. When I was a little girl, all small and two left feet, and hungry for life and love, my daddy would smile and whisper something beautiful. _Hunger is the best spice._ And it's true. So true. When I left, left the town and left the ghosts and left my daddy, he looked at me the same way he did when I was eight and in love with the universe. And I never got the chance to tell him he was right.

I remember when once upon a time always, always ended with happily ever after. This is not my style. Or yours. Very few, so few, can dream outside the box. Can invent new games where sparks fly like shooting stars and bring new loves with each new day.

I remember you, my radiant one. I remember the words that inspired the stars in my eyes. I remember the rapture of wind and rain and his love. Back when I still believed in wind and rain and his love. I remember the iridescent color of your eyes during the grayest of my years and they way they danced like candlelight to the music of my soul.

I remember beauty. The innocent beauty of your hand on the small of my back. The look in your eyes. The look of your soul. I remember my dreams, or dream, it's always the same. Even still.

My dream is about you, or for you or maybe, possibly it is your dream and I just watched it unfold on public television. I can't be sure.

Anyway, in my dream, they (they?) speak Spanish. Mucho gusto, etc. It's a more of a chant. Or maybe a chore. A life philosophy, if you will.

If you will follow, that is.

You've come this far, I have to wonder, shouldn't, but I have to. Do you understand? Would you, could you perhaps be willing to go a little further?

Allow me to explain.

After you left that night, _that stupid fucking night_, I began counting the minutes. I counted, added and bottled. Bottled and committed to memory. I could, would, won't tell you in exact detail how full the bottle is, but you know. You already know.

The sharks never left, never leave, could never leave me alone after that night. I was alone and they knew it. Fresh meat. I hated high school. Fucking sharks. They never leave. They never left me. They'll never leave you too. I thought you should know this. You already do. And the words or the thoughts or both never leave and make you question. Make you question your own thoughts etc... All the reasons you dot your t's and cross your i's. And the thoughts or words or both crawl like ants at Sunday picnics. And you try to stop them, but can you? I can't, never could. I won't stop them. And I know that you know.

And I know what you fear; to slip with such complexity in to what we would be, could be, should be forever: Lovers, friends, children, poets, dreamers, soul mates etc... Taking each moment to find such simplicity in perfecting the way we kiss.

But let me tell you what you may not know.

This is (not) an ordinary day, but an ordinary life full of ordinary possibilities. An ordinary day full of the reality and righteousness of a long forgotten love.

But I haven't, can't, will never forget.

This is not an easy task. Life, that is. It is the night sky in a bottle. It is beauty bound by hate. Loved laced with cyanide.

And this is (just) another moment. A simple section of time split wide open like some childish dream about the vastness of the universe.

We all, we and me and you want to look back, to remember the good days. The innocent days. The carefree, careless, stoned school days. The Friday night football, be home by curfew, Strawberry wine, No. 2 pencil days.

Perhaps that was before your time.

Anyway, back in those days, before the temple of unrequited love lectured from his soapbox, lectured from the parents, teachers, televisions, dealers, I hung out with the Third Street Anarchists that summer. We made up conspiracy theories in the backyard over tequila shooters and acid tabs and when god left, because he did, when god disappeared I left that small town prison for the city of dreams, where the anti-existentialists rule and nothing alters everything. Everything is altered. Even here.

Anti-existentialists. Bah. They're worse than the sharks.

I have discovered something interesting. Maybe not so much interesting as painful, fucking bittersweet. The drug of choice here, here in the city of dreams, here in the gallery of god's mistakes, the drug of choice here is amnesia.

Because the heart is never fully done with grief. Never done and you know this. The heart is never done with grief and it can only ever be buried. Buried and only by the really great liars. The great ones who can push it deep and deeper until it's nothing more than the occasional rumbling, the occasional sinking in the pit of their stomach.

And while I'm good, I'm not great.

My daddy once revealed the greatest secret of all to me. He said, baby girl, cause that's who I was, he said baby girl, even the stars have their secret charms. And boy was he right. I watched the stars fall, fall like a slow, sneaking criminal knocking down the door. I watched the stars fall like the single flake of snow that causes the avalanche. And no one could stop it. We couldn't stop it. My daddy, my stars. They all fell. The resulting matter/anti-matter explosion, the metal had sounded. A shot in the blackest night. They all fell.

Will you do me a favor?

Go to Marcy's Flowers on Spring Street. Buy a fire and ice rose, fire and ice because it is me and you and life. Take it to my daddy's grave. Tell him I miss him and love him. Miss and love both him and you.

Fire and ice. Stars fall and we sigh.

I know someone is still out there somewhere, maybe it's you. Or me. Someone is out there in a place where the wind is hushed. Where children dance joyfully in the silent streets that have no desire to rewind the world. Not yet. No need for the city's drugs. No idea that before they can blink, fucking blink, they'll dream of life before the wind. Of a time when the stars that fell were for wishes and not a means to mark the time between explosions.

I stashed sunlight in sulfur-stained attics for nights like this. The nights when stars fall and beautiful archangels beckon. Whisper and wander and lead. The stars fall and tonight I wish. I wish for you. Selfish, I know. Completely fucking selfish. You are not mine. But I wish. I wish, I wish, I wish.

Because if you are reading this, than maybe...

I have a proposal for you. A chance or a choice. I want to share my life with you, share on paper, in friends and hearts and minds. Will you follow? If I write the words will you read them? The choice is yours. The words are out there. It all begins in Lubbock, Texas.

Always, always, always yours,

~Bella

**A/N: Questions? Comments? Please review.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: The characters belong to SM.**

**AN: My apologies that this took so long. This is a hard story to get the words right. Thanks for sticking with me.**

**Chapter 4: Electricity**

She is beauty and love and not replaceable. She is gravity. How does she not know this?

_She_ is Bella.

Bella.

Bella, _beauty, _b-e-l-l-a. The word, the name drip, drip, drips from my tongue. It swirls around my mouth like venom, bleeding into every pore, thick and autumn yellow. Like honey. Like childhood.

I savor it. Swish and swirl, I read again and again until...

ZAP!

The words are electric. Like lightening. I am a kite, holding a key.

The words, like electricity run through my mind like waves that pound against me like pure magic. These words speak of shades of gray, bittersweet, I will not go back, will not go back to the original sparks created and cannot go back again. I fall and fade and crack like glass and melt into the sand, beneath the waves that run like electricity, through me.

Bella was, is, always will be electricity.

Somewhere in the snow gray, there is a stupid little boy who knows this. Knew this. He may have lied, is _still_ lying, but he knows that Bella is beauty, is electricity.

She is, has always been, was meant to be mine.

Could my life, death(?) Could my eternity be so beautiful?

A silly swan's words echo through my mind. They are white words. White lies. But how would she know?

**Thoughts that echo:**

_No. Never. Of course not. It's only a dream._

I want to tell her. I want to beg, plead, tell her that it's not _only_ a dream. She's my _only _dream.

Except I can't dream. She's my only dream.

"I _promised _her. Can't you understand that?" It's a whisper-shout and it's this whisper-shout that brings me back from the beauty, from Bella. A whisper-shout from a woman with a belly swollen with child, a heart swollen with love.

They don't know I can hear.

I listen.

"He should know, Ang. It's the right thing to do." I taste his sadness.

"The right thing to do is to honor my friend." Her love-swollen heart breaks.

"Okay, sweetheart." Sadness. Pity. Resignation. Hello, old friends.

I grip the letter a little tighter, sew it into my heart and materialize in the kitchen.

"Why?" It's this question that slips. And I need an answer like a lifeline.

The child-filled, love-filled woman stands with decided effort, stands and moves to face me.

"Transformations, Jasper. You knew who she was. She wants you to know who she became."

I close my eyes. Remember her words. "A butterfly."

"Exactly."

"Where is she, Angela?"

Sigh. Despair. "I can't tell you that."

"But why? I don't understand."

"It's part of the journey. Let me ask you, is she worth it?"

"Absolutely." Without a doubt.

She laughs. It's a music box. A tiny, toy ballerina spins. "Then what are you waiting for? Follow her words."

"Thank you, Angela."

"Bye, Jasper."

Forks is weary-dreary. The rain drizzles drops down, down. I taste it, drink it in. I walk the two miles to the flower shop, through the gray streets. Life is colorless without her near me.

I duck into the tiny shop, breathing in the rich scent of a thousand flowers. I seek out the freesias first, taking Bella's scent into my lungs. The memories burn, imprint themselves unto me, into me.

"Can I help you?" An elderly woman asks. Her hair is Forks-gray. Her eyes reflect experience, kindness.

"Excuse me, ma'am. Do you by any chance have any fire and ice roses?" She studies me, takes me in.

"You're not Jasper by any chance?"

"I am." She smiles and launches herself at me, hugging me tightly. I am shocked and it shows. Her closeness unnerves me. It tangles my senses, knots in my throat. I can't remember the last time a human hugged me.

"Sorry. I've actually waited so long for you to come! Just one second." Disappearing from my sight, I hear her shuffling papers, selecting the flowers. She returns will two roses, their beauty astounds me, color in a gray world.

"How did you know it was me?"

"Bella was the only one to order those flowers. She used to say both fire and ice burn you, just like life."

And I knew. She was fire. I was ice. And love burned her.

It burned me too. It still does.

"Do you know where she is?" I have to know. _Knowledge is power._

"Sorry, sweetie. This is your journey." There's that word again. Journey. Passage from one stage to the next. Progress.

"But I don't know where to begin?"

"This may help. Here are your flowers. And a little note from Bella."

I thank, thank, thank her. She hug, hug, hugs me again. I duck out of the shop and am assaulted by the stench of the pups. I've only heard of them, a distant conversation with a man who was father-like.

"I thought I smelled leech. What the fuck are you doing here, Cullen?" It's a sneer. Words laced with pure hate from one of the wolf-bred boys. I cringe.

"Bella." I breath her name. The girl that is beauty and love and was never replaceable.

He snorts. "Which one are you?"

"Jasper."

His eyes dart to the flowers. They soften. Understanding, pity and sadness fill the space between us. I choke on it.

"I'm Jacob. Come on, I'll take you to Chief Swan."

"Did you know Bella?"

"After you all left, she became my best friend."

"Tell me a story about her." Give me a connection.

He laughs at me, at the memories. "One time, she got these motorcycles and brought them over. We fixed 'em up and I took her out riding."

"Bella?" The girl who is gravity was also it's victim.

"Ya, I know. But she was determined." We chuckle at the truth of his words.

"Why are you sad?"

"Are you going to follow the letters, Jasper?" It's a non-answer. Or maybe it's the answer.

"You know about the letters?"

"Of course." Another snort. "She told me if you ever came back to be nice."

"She knew what you are?"

"You know Bella. She always saw the truth." He pauses. Unsure. "We saved her once."

"From what?"

"She said his name was Laurent." I growl. A rumble in my chest. "He was working for some red haired bitch. Um... Victoria."

"Did you kill them?"

"We got Laurent. Victoria killed one of the pack. It was the last straw for Bella. She said she wasn't going to put us in danger any longer. She said she couldn't breathe here anymore."

"That sounds like Bella." Always sacrificing.

"You love her." It's a statement. A fact. He sees it.

"I think I always have."

"Took you long enough to figure that out."

"I know." Blind as I was. "I don't suppose you can tell me where she is?"

"Listen, Jasper. You know the rules. Just... When you get to the end, tell her, tell her I love her. Tell her I miss her."

"I will, Jacob. Thank you for taking care of her."

"I love her too." He shrugs and instantly I am red-jealous. Once upon a time, he got to hold her. Comfort her. But I can't ignore the sincerity.

"I know." I do.

"How long are you going to be in the area? I need to let the pack know."

"I'm leaving as soon I'm done here."

"Do you know where you're going next?"

"Bella said Texas."

"Good luck, then."

Jacob does the last thing I expect, he shakes my hand. His skin burns me. Fire and ice. He transforms, a russet wolf, and runs into the woods. Leaving me breathless. Colorless.

**A little bit of truth:**

_It's all a transformation._

I sit next to the Chief's headstone. I dust it off. Place the flowers. Open the letter.

_My love,_

_I know you're wondering how you begin. Begin again? How you start over. You want to know how you fall back in love after so much has happened. How you leave behind the planned life, the preposterous prosperity and unpaid bills, the flashes of light-lost imprinted permanently on your heart. It's easy. Start the car. It's really all that simple, isn't it? Just remember... everything worth happening, happens when you least expect it. And breathe. Breathing is a necessity. And while your breathing, something might just happen, because life can change with every breathe we take. And when your heart hurts, just breathe. And when you can't stop the pain, just breathe. Follow your heart. And breathe. Sooner or later all the pieces will fall into place... They always do. _

_If you still want to do this, your next letter is at Texas Tech. Stangel Hall, room 214. I love you._

_Always, Bella_

Day falls and night breaks into one thousand questions. I shout them into the wind. Where they are lost. Forever.

I lose balance. I remember to breathe. I look to all that remains of a great father, fulfill my silent promise.

"Hey Chief. My name is Jasper. Bella wanted you to know that she loves you. And I love her. I'm hoping she still loves me. If she does, I'll take care of her for eternity. I swear it."

I mean it. I breathe in her love. The world fades until all I feel, see, feel is her electricity. That spark she creates that is light or god or magic. None of the above.

That spark is her. I run.

Two thousand miles to go.

**AN: I'm working on a couple of one-shots and another chapter for Nowhere Left to Run. Once I'm done with all that, I'll work on the next chapter of this. **

**Leave me some love.**


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Release

Pairing: Bella/Jasper

Word Count: 2951

Summary: Many years after Bella's 18th birthday party, Jasper returns to Forks and discovers a secret letter. Will he follow his heart? A cluttered commentary in prose.

Disclaimer: SM owns the characters.

-This letter is a bit more _lucid_ than her previous two letters. As I said before, all will be explained in due time. However, the tense does shift from past to present on occasion. It is done on purpose. Everything has a point. Stick around, and I'll get there.-

AN at bottom.

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**Chapter Five: The Third Letter**

My Sweet Boy,

Although you are hardly a boy, _hardly, _you are mine. My sweet boy. I think. I hope. When this is all over, would you have been mine?

Or was only a dream?

If the past is the present and the present the future, what is to become of us? Fuck, what did I say?

It's _all_ a transformation.

And we all transform, don't we? Don't we spend years transforming?

These simple, silly question plague me. A plague of frogs falling on windshields causing the accidents we can't, we can't look away from. A plague of locusts, buzz, buzz, buzzing in my, your head.

A plague of sickness. A sickness of the heart. Even if, when, if our hearts no longer beat. Understand?

I don't. Sometimes I understand very little. But I understand you. I understand love and I understand transformations.

Once you leave, leave me, leave them, leave normal, you understand or understood too.

You see, I've always been yours. Always. Always have been. Always will be. Always, never and always.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm disappearing. Folding into myself so that I am so small that I am larger than life itself. Complacent contradictions? Nah. I just don't want to disappear. I want to be found. I want to remember each smell and laugh, each hateful remark and loving word. I want to remember your voice. I want to be a part of the earth and sky and rain. And I am. So are you.

But one day, this will all be gone. Fields and flowers. Love and hate. And it feels like we just got here. Or I just got here. Or neither of us ever arrived.

Here, alone and always, you are in my dreams. Always in my dreams. Even the waking ones. I watch you from the secret shadows that hide even me.

You pretend not to notice me. But I know you do. But I like the dream game. The hide and seek game.

And you, my love? I know the games you adore. So I watch in silent anticipation. Participate in silent anticipation.

I had a dream the other day. It was a dream or dream-like and we held each so close you could see the flowers painted over our hearts. Fire and ice. We held each other so close that it was impossible to tell where I began and you ended.

We haven't even begun to begin. And there is no end.

And you, well, you kissed me. Slow at first, slow with caution or the desire to savor. Who's to say? I'm hardly a mind reader.

But you kissed me and I kissed you and somehow kiss just isn't enough of a word.

In all the world, in all of time, there has never been a kiss allowed like the one you gave me in the dream world. A small gift from Morpheus. I'll have to send him thank you card.

You held my face, placing your hands, your fingers, oh god your fingers, along the lines of my cheek bones. You held my cheek gentler than the spring rain, softer than silk. In the sun, for surely the sun still shines, a thousand scars crisscrossed and zig-zagged across you. Across your chiseled body, an image of god, or rather my image of god floats around my head. They, the scars I've seen, but never seen blended into you, into us. They became a part of us. A part of what made us, us, I didn't, sure as hell couldn't notice anything but your perfection. Not that you are perfect. Just perfect for me. Perfect for me. Perfect for me.

I hope you know that. That you are perfect for me. A piece of a puzzle that assures me it's you and not another of the four hundred and ninety-nine that compliment my imperfections. So many imperfections.

What I did notice, in the dream world, was the look in your eyes. Your eyes. I didn't notice, not at first. How could I, perfect as you are? They were black as night. Black as a moonless, desert night. Onyx. Beauty. Mine. Filled with want for me. That, my sweet boy, I did not understand. Could not, would not, refuse to understand. How could you want a broken, half-girl. Living a broken, half-life. Waiting, waiting, waiting for my other half. Waiting, waiting, waiting. For you.

But you did. Want me, that is. Even if it was only a dream. And I'll pray to gods I stopped believing in one day, that one fucking day. I'll pray and wish on every goddamn shooting star that one day you'll look at me like that, without the magic of the dream carrier. The dream whisperer.

But it was my dream and the closest I've been to you since the incident that took you away. Since the once perfect boy lost control and the pixie wings beat a drum in triumphant defeat. Since the day they took you from me.

Enough about them though. This is about my dream.

After you kissed my lips, I can still feel the tingle. Even in the waking world, I can still feel them tingle. After you kissed my lips, you slid the tiny straps of my white eye-let dress down, down, down. Until there was no dress. We are all born and re-born this way. You kissed my lips and neck. My bare shoulder and breast. Burning, burning, burning with ice.

You laid me down, bare and bright. You laid me down and felt me inch by agonizing inch with your hands and lips and tongue. Inch by inch with the entirety of your body. Full and proud and erect, you slowly slipped, slipped, slipped your way inside. Did you discover the beauty that I had? Did you feel what I've been trying to tell you all along?

Perfection.

Pure and simple, with every movement, we grew closer. Closer to each other. Closer to the universe. Closer to beauty. Gasping, moaning, crying out closer to the universe.

I didn't want it to end.

But when it did, for all good things must, I saw your eyes. A mix of love and fear.

Why were you scared, I wondered? I realize this must be different, difficult for you. Not having the waif-like girl pulling the puppet strings any longer. It was for me. Standing on my on two feet. Not that we are the same, not that my _relationship _could compare to yours, but the pain, _our_ pain that is, is the same. It's not. It's just middle-ground. A meeting place. But you know what? Sooner or later you have to realize a couple of things. Just as I did.

You have to stop being paralyzed. Stop swallowing your words and say what you mean, and always, always fucking mean what you say. Stop caring what the others think. They'll understand someday. They all will. Throw away all your clothes and begin again. Wear whatever the fuck you want. Turn up your favorite song and sing along so fucking loud you can't tell the difference between your voice and the song. Start the car.

There is beauty in that kind of transformation.

Perhaps, most importantly, begin to live now. And I mean n_ow. _Take risks. Tell secrets. This life is yours. Start fucking acting like it.

That was uncalled for, maybe. Harsh, to say the least, but I learned the hard way and I want to help. I suppose if you're following these letters, then you are living _your_ life. I hope. I hope. I hope you are living your life and not the memory of mine. These memories of mine I choose to share with you, for you may be the only being in the entire universe worthy enough for me to love.

But now, your choices are your own. And if you would chose me, I would show you endless love. Absolute and endless.

The sky is speaking riddles today. Did you plan that? The raindrops whisper in my ear and I can't get away from your voice. It chases me through my dreams and calls my name.

In truth, I don't fucking want to get away from your voice. It's a melancholy melody from a past life. A melody of mistakes. A melody of the madness that is love. Your love for me or my love for you. It's you that hums the melody of hope against my skin. Playing my body like music. A symphony of A sharps and D flats.

I want to drink it in and have it become a part of me forever. I want to hear it shout in my head when you're not here and fucking whisper in my ear when you are close. I breathe for these moments. I fucking breathe.

Have you remembered to breathe?

I know this must be really fucking frustrating, chasing rainbows. If, in fact, I am a rainbow. How do you put up with me? These ramblings are far from lucid, most of the time, but you understand them, don't you? It's a soul-deep feeling. A heart-known connection.

Fuck. Sometimes I don't even make sense to myself.

It has to be this way, though. I think. I fucking think. I can't fucking think. I think I'm giving you every opportunity to run away while you still can. Because, Jasper, the things you find out next aren't all pretty.

Not that any life is all pretty.

Fair warning: It isn't. Mine sure as hell isn't.

Yours too?

Perhaps that is why I'm letting you discover it on your own. Discover and discard, if you wish.

I doubt I'll ever fucking know.

Or maybe I will. But I'll understand. If nothing else, know that. As I said, this is your fucking choice and I can only hope, hope, hope your choice is me.

So let's begin, shall we?

I suppose you're wondering how I ended up in Texas. It's simple. If you took my advice then you already know. I started the car. I followed the sun. Apollo leading a beat-up truck, a worn chariot.

It was quite a sight.

And let me tell you something you may or may not already know; distance fucking sucks. My distance from you, from myself... It all just fucking sucks.

It was here, in Lubbock, a town with no name and many names, that the truck met it's demise. It was a noble death, it's mission completed. It melted away in nothingness. Another pile of rust. Another piece of the earth.

For three days, I slept in the cab, saving what little money I had for food. If only I could survive on you. If only. Do you remember food? It's sugar sweetness. It's savory succulence. It's more expensive then your current diet and I've never been much for hunting. Daddy always thought I was a strange human. If I recall correctly, so did you.

David Hall found me on the fourth day. Invited me to stay. A mistake. But I have always been a fool, why change now?

More about him later. Soon. Another letter. Another day.

After the David incident, incidents?, I met a boy name Mark Richmond. He was a sweet boy. Naive and full of possibilities. He was me. He took care of me. Mended what could be mended and held me close when no words could describe the ache. You know the ache? The ache when your soul is torn? When all you can truly be is half of yourself?

This was his dorm room back then. If they haven't already, ask the current occupants how this box of letters came to be there.

Anyway, Mark let me stay here, never pushing, never prying. We shared adventures and journeys and friendship. And in some small way, we shared love.

I told him about the once perfect and in control boy who had said love and said forever. I told him about the waif-life girl with the pixie wings that fluttered. I told him of the betrayal and lies. I told him about you. And do you know what he said to me?

He said: Get out and don't come back without him.

I wondered how he could know that my heart yearned for you? That you were not yet, but always meant to be mine?

He said he just knew. Like it was written in sharpie across my forehead.

There are three more envelopes in this box, each with an instruction, a memory, a piece of me.

Follow them if you wish to learn more. But Jasper, my sweet boy, it's your fucking choice. It always has been.

Can I be candid for a moment?

Thoughts of you rattle me sometimes, like they are not my own. Like they belong to someone worthy. Worthy of you. Worthy of beauty. Worthy enough to know each scar that adorns your magnificence. Worthy enough to know each lock of your hair, to know the feel of your lips. Even if it was just a dream. It

s not as if I can un-forget it. I could never forget you. But sometimes, I want to fold myself up, into small pieces and disappear until my thoughts are my own again and the rattlesnakes slink off to wherever it is that rattlesnakes go. But the thought that you could maybe, possible, one day love me back make me want to bloom into something more than I am, something worthy and melt into myself and make you care about me.

Is that wrong?

Do you not see the beauty that is you? Do you not understand? I wish I could show you what you look like through my eyes scars and all. And yes, I have noticed them. As much as my eyes would let me know them. But if you could see yourself through my eyes, my weak human eyes, you would understand just how fucking beautiful you truly are.

The gasping, moaning, crushing beauty that is you, is tug, tug, tugging at my heart. Tug, tug, tugging at my heart and healing my soul.

When I think I of you, I want to shrink and grow. My heart is full of fucking contradictions. My heart is in my stomach breathing in and out and in again and I don't make any sense, but there isn't enough room for me in there anymore. There is only room for you. For us. Your voice and hands and lips. Voice and hands and lips on me. Oh, how I long to feel your lips. To feed the fire. To burn in the ice with you.

I'm alone, alone, lonely at night. I wish for your melody to hum along my skin. There are symphonies to write and you're not here to write them.

And it is terribly still at night alone. Terribly, horribly fucking still. Even with the city's hustle and bustle below me, the sirens and the Saturday night tourists, there are one million things to distract me here, if I only I would, could let them. If only. My story. Yours too. There are no distractions here. At least none that can compete with the stillness. None that can compete with a world without you near.

I'd dream you near if I could.

But I can't. It's you. You, you, you. It's always been you and never me.

I bought a notebook from the college store when I was safe and lived with Mark. It had one hundred and sixty pages of college ruled paper. I scribbled nonsense in it day after day, night after sleepless night.

I wrote only one thing then. Over and over. Pages and pages.

There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty. There is so much beauty.

As if writing it would make it come true, would scrub the dirtiness that had penetrated each inch of me and I would be clean and beautiful and worthy. Who am I trying to convince?

Mark read it one night after I had fallen asleep. He offered no criticism, no comments. Just read the words and nodded as if he felt it too. As if he knew. Mark had the soul of a poet. Even if Angela had the words. But he read and nodded and I knew that he knew that I knew.

I think he did.

One night, after I left Mark's I opened my notebook and I scribbled one line that connected the Earth and sky: _Everything happens for a reason._

I'll look back on life with no regrets. Expect one. You. The silence. The distance between us. They are all one in the same, you know.

Because sometimes, all I can hear is that stupid fucking silence. And silence, my love, silence is it's own sound, it's own sound and so much more.

I can only hope that you read this and love me. Or like me, at the very least. I'm terrified that you will read this and love me.

There are three envelopes left in this box. Pull out the one marked Mark Richmond next. He should still live in the area, find him. He'll tell you about the brighter side of my life without you, if such a thing ever existed.

Until next time, my love;

~Your Bella

Always.

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AN: I have a list of like five things I wanted to write, but this is what came out. For those of you wondering, we will hear all about Jasper's trip to Texas as well as the remaining three letters Bella mentioned. Let me know what you think. Also, if you happen to have any suggestions for this little treasure hunt, let me know. If I use your idea, you will receive full credit.

Lastly, Have you heard of A Different Kind of Fear contest? No? Go check it out. Read, write and leave reviews. The contest ends 10/31 and voting will be from 11/1 – 11/10. It's an anon contest so I can't tell you which one is mine, but all of the entries are amazing. Here is the link www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/ u/2519307/ADifferentKindOfFear

Until next time, my dears, hugs and kisses.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Excuses, excuses. Writer's block... Sick... No internet. I had to borrow to post this. For those of you waiting for NLTR, I'll try to get it to you next week. I'm not even sure if I like this chapter, but we'll see.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own. Mentions of rape in this chapter.**

**Chapter 6: Blast From the Past**

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There are stars behind my eyes and whispers in my head as I run back to the empty white house. Empty. Empty. Empty.

Or maybe not so empty. Not so fucking empty.

I feel almost _full_ now. As if life is almost fucking full now. I feel hope. How strange an emotion hope is. How strange it is for me to feel it here, now. But it's there. And I do. It's there bubbling just beneath the surface of the walls, growing tall in the grass, beating around my brain. Drum, drum, drumming around my soul.

It's also the constant tick-tock, tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the entry way. Not my grandfather, no, but someone's, to be sure. It makes me think time is running out. Fucking tick-tock.

Perhaps it is.

I take but a moment to breathe in her lingering scent that wafts up from the letters she once held, and feel the swoon they only speak about in books. How odd that it really exists? The swoon I've only read about. In the books she read. The books she loved, loves. I imagine her sitting at some distant windowsill, as she once did here, pondering the great things, reading the great words. I picture the way her hair fell, fell so gracefully around her face. The way it melted across her cheeks, caused her eyes to close.

I used to look at her feet then. When she read here at the windowsill of the white house. Strange, right? But the way her toes curled when she read and reread that favorite line of that favorite book and her eyelashes fluttered and she was just, just...

Perfection.

She always caught me. Always. I remember. She would toss her hair, her mouth half-open as she looked up from her book, a snapping, smiled "what?" poised upon her perfect lips.

"I'm just looking," I'd tell her, throwing in a defensive shrug. But that was a half-lie and a half-truth. Most things are, I suppose. I was looking. I wanted her to catch me, startled in some stalker-esque gaze because after that night nowhere near home, I was too much of a pussy to look at her head-on for any other reason. For the real reason.

I fucking thought she was his.

How could I know, blind as I was?

I think back to that moment in a hotel nowhere near home and this is the moment that I cling too, I remember. The moment in time that was the most intense. For both of us. The moment both of our faces looked at each other head-on. And there are no secrets then, you know?

You don't always realize it, I never realized it, during a date, at the movies, the long walks on the beach, the sex... you never really realize how rare it is to look someone head-on like that.

It's... _intense._

Her face and eyes... God himself could not have envisioned anything so pristine.

She was made for hard kisses and cold winter nights.

She was made to reflect the light, a prism to hold it in and release it at whim. Her whim.

She was made good enough to love someone who didn't, couldn't, would never deserve her love.

She was made for me.

Fucking made for _me._

And now that I know that, life is full again.

I long to feel her close again. To touch and taste. To feel and know. To be allowed, finally allowed to touch and taste and feel and know her. I'm crawling out of my skin with anticipation, to many what ifs what ifs what ifs, floating around the air. I choke.

Bella is right. I fucking hate what ifs.

I remember to breathe.

I load up my truck with some spare clothes and turn to leave when I hear it, her.

"Jasper," she says all tiny and frightened. A little mouse. It's a small plea from the new girl, who is less and sad and shouldn't be here so far from the stupid little boy she calls mate.

But she is. She is less and sad and she knows it. But she feels love for the stupid little boy and although I want to, I can't blame her for causing this.

"Did they send you?" I can't, don't want to hide the hostility in my voice. It's not her fault, none of this. She is new and less, but she didn't know.

"They don't know I'm here. I just... I needed some time to think."

I shrug. She understands. So do I.

"You're going to find her right?" A thousand more questions blossom in me at her question and just as I'm about to ask, she holds up a picture, an offering. A seventeen teen year old brown eyed beauty, a shy beauty. The best kind. And it's like she, who is new and less, already loves the girl who is beauty and love and not now, was never replaceable.

"Yes." I tell her. It's a vow. Unbreakable. It goes unspoken that it very well may be the last thing I do, but it's, she's worth it. She always been worth it.

"Good," she tells me with finality. "Find her and bring her home, Jasper." Home. Bella always belonged.

Bella _is_ my home.

"Thank you." Are those words enough?

"I'll do what I can to keep the seer away," she sneers with malice, a wicked glint in her eye known only to the truly wronged.

I smile, smile, smile and nod and send wave after wave of gratefulness to her. She smiles and disappears into the night.

Just like I do.

One thousand, nine hundred and fifty six miles to go.

Washington... I barely notice the passing scenery, pretty though it may be.

Oregon... Hermston. Lewis and Clark were here. Apparently there is a hat shaped rock? Not interested. One thousand, five hundred and twenty six miles left.

Idaho... One thousand, three hundred and twenty five more miles. I passed through a town whose only pop culture claim to fame was having a house with the address of 123 Elm Street. Boring.

But I could think of Bella all day. And I would.

Utah... Logan. There is at least an airport here. And apparently more than a couple retired NFL football players once called this home. I begin to hate useless facts, even ones that help pass the time. One thousand and twenty one miles. These towns are testing my sanity.

A short stint in Colorado and then Shiprock, New Mexico. This baffled me and allowed a little work out for my brain. Who calls a town Shiprock in New Mexico? Crazy people, that's who. But I am so close now. Just five hundred more miles.

I wonder what I will find there.

Texas... Farwell, Texas. I remember this place. I laughed at the irony of the name the last time I left this hell. Farwell. Farewell. But now I have ninety more miles and my journey may only be beginning.

But she is worth it. Always worth it.

_Home, sweet _hell, I think as I pull into Texas Tech. It's a blissfully overcast day, but still hotter than a witch's tit. It's just after five in the morning when I finally arrive and I wait ever-so-_not_-patiently for a more acceptable hour.

Fuck this.

By six thirty, I can't stand it anymore. I use the excuse that I really don't know when the sun will burn away the low cloud covering and I all but run to Stangel Hall, abruptly pounding on the door to room 214.

When a hung-over boy answers, my voice may sound overly-chipper. "Hi, my name is Jasper Hale. I think there's something here for me."

"Look man, I don't who you are, but it's way too early to be fucking with me."

He goes to close, slam the door. I stop him with my foot.

"I told you, my name is Jasper Hale." I bar my teeth a bit, enough to scare him, or maybe not.

"Sure it is," he, the rude, half-sleeping boy snorts. "I'm Santa Claus. Go away."

"I can prove it." It's an olive branch, I offer, a hope.

This catches, holds, demands his attention. He rubs the sleep from his eyes.

"How?"

I throw, hand him my wallet. He pours through my license, credit cards. He is scrutiny personified.

"Holy shit! Jen, get your ass out of bed."

"Wha?" The confused girl emerges from the blankets, sleepy-eyed.

"Man, you're like dorm legend. Holy shit! I can't believe this." He is nearly bouncing and I can only stare, dumbfounded.

He fiddles with the air vent and removes a box.

"Holy shit," he whispers.

"You said that. What do you mean, I'm dorm legend?"

"This box has been here for years. At the beginning of every school year, the occupant from the previous year visits and tells its story."

"The box has a story?" I ask skeptically. What kind of box has a fucking story?

"Get on with it, Joey," the girl snaps, tossing a pillow at the boy.

"A short one, but yes. It may not be exactly right, having been passed down so many times. Let's see. A long time ago-"

"How long?" I interrupt. He rolls his eyes impatiently.

"No idea, man. Anyhow, a long time ago this chick used to live here with a guy named Mark. Those two got up to some crazy shit. I heard they once tee-peed the Dean's office-"

"It was the RA's room," the girl corrects.

"The Dean's office. What's legendary about tee-peeing the RA's room? Nothing, that's what. So, when it comes time to graduate the two of them put a bunch of memories into this box to be left here for one Mr. Jasper Hale, you. Like a time capsule, or some shit. And like I said, every year, the previous occupant comes over to make sure the current one knows all about it. Dude, I can't believe it's me. This is like the greatest day ever." His eyes shine with pride and I can tell in some weird way he means it.

The box is a typical shoe box sized, carefully wrapped in grocery store brown paper. I can only hold it, stare, ponder the secrets she left me.

Do I want to know them?

Yes. Without a doubt... But...

Am I ready for her secrets, for her love? For wherever this box may lead?

Well, they say curiosity killed the cat. Truth be told, I never liked the creatures. I slowly begin to open the packaging.

"Wait!" The girl calls. "You have to be alone when you open it. You weren't going to tell him that were you?" She accuses with a slap to the back of her boyfriends head.

He rubs the back of his head and mumbles, "sorry, dude. She's right." He stands and reaches out to shake my hand as I follow suit. "Good luck."

Grabbing the box, I bolt at near human speed back to my truck. My fingers are itching. The drum, drum, drumming growing louder. I lift off the lid and find three envelops. One with Mark Richmond's name, the second with David Hall's and a third one with the words _My dearest love_ written in elegant script.

I pull out the envelope with Mark Richmond's name on it, open, gasp.

How?

Along with a short note is my army draft card, withered and faded but that is clearly my name. My true name.

Bella found me.

Here, in Texas, where it all began.

_My dear Major Whitlock,_

_What a blast from the past this must be, huh? I hope this little trinket finds you well, it is yours after all, but this is my story. Well, kind of. And for now it starts like most things, in total darkness._

_You see, it was a group of people that found me after David... Well, after. They all talked, talked, talked without saying anything. All I could hear was something like _home_ whispering in my ear._

_Mark. He was gentle. He was what I needed._

_He sounded so familiar but I couldn't remember... or... or I didn't want to remember._

_The flashbacks wouldn't leave me alone, even when I opened my eyes. Sometimes they still don't._

_And that's how Mark found me, a broken girl. Bruised, bloodied and broken. In so many more ways than one._

_At first, even though he made me feel safe, I drew myself into a cage. Locked the door, painted the bars shut and wished the world away. Closed my eyes and wished, hoped, wished the world away._

_It didn't work._

_So he learned to make me laugh instead and I learned to let him. Ask him to tell you about how we got your draft card._

_Ask him to tell you about a broken girl, learning to live again._

_Oh and keep the last name. You are a Whitlock. My Whitlock._

_Love Forever._

I knock and don't have to wait long.

"Are you Mark Richmond?" I ask.

"Who wants to know?" He crosses his arms across his chest, a defense.

"My name is Jasper. Jasper Whitlock."

Two words and an entire attitude change. "No shit? Come on in, buddy! I've been waiting on this day for... well, for a really fucking long time. You wanna beer?"

"No, thanks."

"Of course, of course. _You_ want to hear all about our little Bellybean."

"Bellybean?" I snicker. No way she would like that.

"I know. She hated it. Must be why I used it all the time. I see you got your, what did Bella say, your great grandfather's draft card there. Stealing that one was one of our trickier little stunts. But once she saw it, she said she had to get it."

Stolen? What? "I'm sorry. Did you say Bella stole this? What? How?"

He laughs. A real belly-laugh. "I always knew she cut cleaner than the rest of us. But boy, could that girl act."

"Bella? Bella Swan?" Surely we are not talking about the same girl.

"The one and only. See, this one time, we were touring the museum for one of my history classes and she sees it while flipping through this book," he waves to the paper I'm holding. I don't think I've held it since 1863 and I'm not about to let go. "By then, I already knew who you were so when she told me that something like that should belong in the family, and she fluttered her eyelashes I just sorta agreed.

"Funny," he laughs as he scratches his head. "She got me to do a lot of stuff like that."

And I smile too. Bella the little manipulator.

"So she tells me she's gonna steal it and all I have to do is flip the page and _act concerned._ Needless to say I'm confused as all fuck until she starts faking a seizure. Right there in the middle of the museum." He shakes his head and smiles. "A motherfucking seizure. When I see that she's already palmed the card, I knock the book off the pedestal and play the part of the concerned friend. When security shows up, she slips the card into my backpack and goes on and on about forgetting her meds and how she doesn't need an ambulance, just some rest.

"We walked right out the front door."

"It sounds like you two had some good times," I chuckle, feeding off his mirth.

"We sure did," he pauses a little too long and I am suddenly filled with dread. "I miss the hell out of that girl."

"What happened to her?" Where is she? Is she okay?

"She moved on to find you. But that's not the answer you're looking for."

He's right. It's not. But as I seem to be constantly reminded, this is my journey.

"Tell me about the girl you knew," I plead.

"I can't tell you about David. She made me promise. She told me it was his story. Is that where you are going next?" I nod. "Give the bastard hell for me. What I can tell you is about a girl who once she came out of her shell, was one hell of a good time."

We spend the next three hours talking, laughing. They did tee-pee the Dean's office once. There was also a story somewhere in there involving the school mascot, a bottle rocket and three legged dog. In Mark's words, _don't ask. _And I can feel it. So much love. There is joy in his memories of her. But I sense the underlying sadness.

Just like with all the others. But the tick-tock echos and I have no more time here. I change tactics. Time to get a move on.

"Do you know how I can find David?"

"Yeah," he snorts. "Just off the I-10. Downtown Houston State Jail." My worry shoots sky high, but I think I hide it. I fucking think.

"Thank you, Mark. For taking care of her." This time, I reach for his hand first. He takes it and smiles. How strange it is that she makes me more human.

"She wanted you to read the letter before you see him. I assume you know what that means."

I give a brief nod and hop back into my truck. I make a quick hunt before turning making the five hundred mile trek to Houston.

I park my car at the prison and open the letter, hoping against hope that it will prepare me.

It doesn't.

_Love,_

_If David keeps his promise, this, his story about me, will be hard to hear. I only ask one thing._

_Leave him to suffer, love. He does. More so than you could make him._

_And this is no longer about him._

_It's about us. Talk to him to know more of me._

_We're so close now. You, I mean. You are so close now. Breathe. So many secrets threaten to spill over. I want to let them. I won't let them. Not yet. Will you still follow? Knowing what you now know, will you still follow?_

_Time is short, but you have two options. The third envelope contains a map with a highlighted route. It's a fun road trip and I recommended it. But time is short. So if you want, follow the map to the star in Browning, Montana._

_When you get there, read the second letter in this envelope. And you'll find your answers, love._

_Always yours._

My mind is racing, reeling. Secrets?

There are too many questions and not enough answers.

I enter the jail, leaving my keys, wallet and valuables and am placed on the other side of the glass.

"I was wondering when I would see you here," a man in a jumpsuit tells me as he picks up the phone on his side the glass. He is bruised and beaten and without truly known why, I smirk.

"So you know who I am?" I ask.

"Bella told me you'd come. She said if I ever truly wanted her forgiveness, I had to tell you everything I did to her."

"And do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Truly want her forgiveness?"

"More than anything." His words are sincere, his head dipped low and I know whatever happened must have been bad. Bad for him, for others. Bad for my Bella.

He sighs, searching for a place to begin. "You gotta understand, it was just supposed to be a hazing thing, you know, find some girls and scare the shit out of them." He pauses. "That's not true. I knew. I knew. I knew. When I found her, half-starved in that beat-up old truck, I knew. God, I was stupid. But I played my part. I offered her some food and a place to stay.

"She was just so naive... So innocent... So _nice..._

"It began three days later. I invited her to a _party_ at the frat house. It was all a pretense, of course, an audition. Of course, Bella was chosen. She was beautiful... Breakable... We locked her in the basement of the house. Just trying to scare her... at first...

She laughed at us. Said she'd been through worse. _Is that all you got, assholes? Small dicks and big tricks?_ I'll never forget that line. It changed everything."

He takes a break, running his hands over his face. Trying to scrub the memories away.

Since she was my find, I was allowed the first... _go..." _He pauses to gauge my reaction. I am stone. I am seething.

"I was a legacy." He continues. "It's not an excuse for what we did, but I felt, I dunno, _trapped_. So I went... first..."

"You mean you all gang-raped her?" Might as well cut to the chase.

"Yes," I feel his shame, but it doesn't change the fact that I want to reach through the glass and rip him apart. "We took, um, turns. She never cried. Never screamed and some of the others were... brutal. When we _finished, _we just left her there. Until Mark found her during another party. I confessed then, turned us all in. My own father disowned me."

He's crying now. The memories too much for him. But I don't care. I remember Bella's words, "_Leave him to suffer, love. He does. More so than you could make him." _I suppose that's good enough... For now.

And I know it's true. He does suffer. Whether it's enough is up for debate.

"So now here we are, and my debt to her is fulfilled." I reach to hang up the phone but apparently he has one more thing to say. "You know, I can still reach you, even in here. Do not let me hear that you hurt her."

And with that he's gone and I'm left alone. Some part of him must care. But he's alone too.

Always alone.

Just like Bella.

A thought hits me like a ton of bricks; I would follow her anywhere. But today, I go to Montana.

The sun blares it's rays across the desert and I'm thankful for the tint on my truck.

But Bella, Bella was always ruby-red against white. Not just ruby-red, but a rainbow of colors.

Bella is mine.

I hope.

* * *

**So, what did you think? A couple of my stories were nominated for awards and even though I doubt I'll win, the recognition makes me giddy =)**

**Only two chapters left, any guesses?**

**The towns and accolades I chose for Jasper's trip are true_. _And two points to the person who can guess why I chose Browning, Montana for my end point.**

**Questions, comments, hate, love... Hit the review button.**

**Xoxoxo**

**~Spirare**


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Release

Pairing: Bella/Jasper

Word Count: 2543

AN: Sorry for the wait. I have no internet. Excuses, excuses. I don't own the characters. Blah blah blah.

**Chapter Seven: The Final Letter**

My forever Love,

That's what it all comes down to, you know? In the end. Love.

And transformations. Don't forget. It's _all_ a transformation.

Remember and never, _never _forget that.

You've come a long way to find me, haven't you?

And so here I am. At last. On paper.

At least.

I wish I could give you more. More of me. More of us. Just _more._

But I am already lost, was lost months, days, years before you found this. And I'm sorry, but I needed to give you the knowledge.

And the love. Knowledge and love are power and now, whether you realize it or not, you have both.

Are you wondering why you're here, the tiny little town of Browning. I'll tell you what brought me to live here. I figure if letters were good enough for Elizabeth, then they're good enough for me. And so I came across this town on my travels and when I saw the tree in the middle of town, I had to stop.

And write.

I'm here. On paper. At least.

It was, is, will hopefully always be glorious. The tree, that is. It didn't, doesn't belong, and yet neither do I. Not in this world.

It was all so simple.

A simple tree that has survived through the harshest winters, a simple tree that glows moonlight and eats sunshine. It's cold here, but this simple tree gives warmth to me.

And so I write. And here I am.

The me on paper. At least. The me in your heart. I hope.

And you know want to know why?

Why I wrote all this? Why you? Why? Why? Why?

I have very few answers. I apologize for that.

You must think me cruel. Unfair. Selfish.

You are probably right.

I left normal about a quarter mile back to drive through the electric sunflower parade that marches through my brain.

It's beautiful here. In my brain. Maybe not the tumor the doctors see, but from where I stand, it's beautiful here. Where nothing works and everything makes sense. If only to me.

If only.

What was my point? Focus, Bella. It's hard sometimes. Focus, that is. But for you, I would move mountains. If only I could do more than write. Even then it comes out a jumble.

I suppose I write because I want to remember and because words hold more truth than your own memories sometimes, don't you think? If they don't now, at least they will some day when hands and faces are wrinkly and details are fuzzy. Hands and faces and details, save yours.

It's a curse, isn't it? Always knowing in exact detail where and when? Each line, each misplaced hair, a detail you won't ever, can't ever, won't ever forget.

I write because I'm afraid of forgetting. Of me forgetting. Of others forgetting me. Like I was just occupied space for a while there.

I am _very_ fucking afraid of that.

And everyday, I lose myself. To the disease that eats away at my time, what little I have left anyway.

I was wondering though... Do the people I love lose me too?

I am a ball of contradictions these days. I am terrified of you reading all this and knowing me. Or not knowing me. I am terrified of you loving me. Or not.

This is, after all, only the ghost of me.

That's all I'll be by the time you get this. A ghost. An imprint of light, lost in the shadows.

Transformed.

Maybe one day, someone will ask you if you knew me. I may not be afraid to die but I am afraid your answer will be _not anymore._

But you do. Know me, that is. You saw my soul just as I saw yours and while it may have been more years than I care to count ago, I know that you know.

I know you won't forget.

Even if you could.

When I found out, found out I was sick, found out that there was nothing that could be done, I went to my favorite tree, this tree that glows moonlight and eats sunshine and just thought.

Because I found out and was found out.

You can close your eyes to the things you don't want to see. But you can't close your heart to the things that you don't want to feel.

I tried.

But life is good here. I find comfort in this quiet, small town life. Alone in my room, this town, alone by this tree that doesn't belong, I have good memories. And thoughts of you will always find me. Always. They embed themselves in the tree, so that I can almost feel, almost fucking feel you.

If you are there now, can you feel it too?

I write what I know, long, meaningless poems about nothing and everything, about the man who left me behind, about the world I'm leaving behind, about new prospects and old feelings, about everything in between. It's not merely poems or letters I compose in that tattered notebook beneath the tree, but symphonies of color and darkness. Light beyond light. Not necessarily beautiful, but real and true. If thoughts can be those things. _That must be beautiful to someone _I imagine.

And it is.

Before I got really sick, I taught a group of teenagers the meaning of life. I wonder where they are now. I wonder if they took my words to heart and found their own transformations.

I wonder if my tree is still there.

Most thoughts are fleeting, any and all unwritten words are short lived. Whether you want them to be or not. They are. We are. I am. But there is something about an idea wrapped firmly around the mind, any mind, as it unravels and pirouettes through the tip of someone's favorite pen, or marks an impression by means of a dusty old typewriter. Each brush of the pen or stroke of the key leaves a sheet of tangibility. It's art. Pure. Simple.

I met a girl who wanted to be an artist. Except her paintbrush was a razor and the canvas, her wrist. _All great art is soaked in blood,_ she told me.

I told her that words were too. I think she believed me. I told her words are tangible, if you can find the right ones.

The ones you or I can hold and touch. Forever.

It assures me that somewhere, anywhere, something can last forever. I will last forever.

I gave her the same words I have given you. I gave her the word forever and her art became beauty. Without blood.

It became someones happily-ever-after.

Just not mine.

Oftentimes, I found myself so focused on the happily-ever-after. Not that I want it. Not that it is something attainable but I fixate on it so much, I miss the signs. How to tell who to trust and who to renounce, who will stand by me and who will turn me away.

You would stand by me to the end.

If only you had known, right?

Fucking if only...

Don't be bitter, be better. My counselor told me that. I told her it sounds cheesy. I told her there is no being better for me.

There is only death.

Perhaps that is in and of it's self a happy ending.

Because there is a certain amount of beauty in transformations.

Maybe happy endings don't have anything to do with affirmation and rejection. Perhaps they do. Perhaps they are a solitary thing, a solo mission to pick up the pieces and start over again. Perhaps happily-ever-afters are freedom.

Perhaps they are simply stored on a course that you refused to fucking give up hope on.

Until, one day it is time. Time to give up, to let the past remain where it is.

The curtain theaters draw close and the lights dim and flicker and you realize... It may not be what you were expecting, but it is yours.

Embrace it.

My whole life is a fucking flicker. At least, that's what it comes down to.

But as I told you before, it's all a transformation.

Somethings more than others.

I feel like I'm waiting for something that isn't going to happen.

But it's been too fucking long and there are only what ifs and if onlys left.

But there are also dreams and wishes.

I wish you could taste me. Drink my soul into you and understand. Understand that my soul, is yours.

I think perhaps you already do. Perhaps some small part of you always knew.

I wish I could meet you all over again. I want to shake your hand and say, _"Hello. We need each other."_

But yesterday remains yesterday and it will never be the same again.

Would you really want it too?

The truth is there is always someone who will be smarter, prettier, nicer. Always going to be better. Always going to be there. For you.

And I'm jealous. Again.

Because you are you. And that's all you need to be. Promise me you'll hold out for someone who makes you feel. Really feel.

I want you to feel it all. I want you to soak it into your pores and realize that you are worth it.

Realize that you matter.

Realize that the waif-like girl never knew. Never knew you, never knew the beauty of a simple kiss. And her life is gray, whether she knows it or not.

And the sharks that never truly leave, will never know, will never know so many colors.

My life is full of color. I made sure of that, but I also know what is missing in my rainbow. That one indescribable shade that is, will always be, you. There are so many colors, Jasper and I intend to enjoy what I can for the rest of my life. What's left of it at least.

The only thing missing is you.

I think you are the only thing I've ever truly missed.

I wish I would have, could have followed you back then. And I would've, you know. If you had asked. I'd do it the space between heartbeats. Not just because I wanted to or wanted to be yours, but quite simply, because you are you.

Do you understand?

Have you figured out what we neglected to see, what we started in a cheap motel nowhere near home? Truth be told, I didn't want to see. You belonged to her then. Her and not me. Never me.

Angela told me after you left that we could have had something more. More than most. Greater than most. Greater than you and I. She said she could see it in our eyes. And eyes tell all.

Angela was always the poet I wished I could be. Angela. I shall miss her too. I hope she knows. Knows love and beauty and transformations. She deserves it.

All of it and so much more.

Will you tell her?

We both know that life can change with every breath you take. Even if it's your last. We know this, we've felt it.

And this, my love is all really happening. And I can't take it back anymore than you can.

If only we told the truth.

Everybody lies, you see.

You know.

I did and you did and they did. Everybody fucking lies and the real question is what are they lying about today?

Me, I'm lying to myself.

I do that a lot. Lie and wish and dream.

It's all I have now.

So what to do?

You tell me. Even if this is a dream. I'll follow you. I would've then and wish I could now. So let's pretend.

Let's pretend the world was different, and we were different. Would we get our happily-ever-after?

Let's pretend on Mondays, it was just another winter on Fourth Street but summer in Barcelona and we would drink cheap wine and roll our own cigarettes. This is significant. Rolling their own cigarettes.

Let's pretend on Tuesdays I liked to count the stars. 1001. 1002. 1003 until I became lost in your eyes. You liked to count my heartbeat, thump, thump, thump until the rhythm of the count, the beat of our hearts blended. Became one.

Let's pretend on Wednesdays we would stay up until the sun rose and sleep until it set again.

Let's pretend on Thursday morning, the earth was still flat and we would walk along the edge and dance and jump into the infinity of the universe.

Let's pretend on Friday nights when we were fifteen we would fuck in the bed of your truck, parked deep in the cornfield off I-95. Sometimes we made love. Sometimes. You always tasted of vanilla pipe tobacco and moonlight. I knew, just _knew_, that if I could mix your scent into the Northern Lights that Mikey sold on the last Thursday of every month, that we would be able to follow the sandman and sneak into dreams.

Sneak in, as if it was just another R-rated movie.

Let's pretend it was.

Let's pretend on Saturdays we laughed. We sat under the tree and stared deeply into each others eyes and the world was ours and ours alone. And somewhere, in the sunlight we found true beauty in laughter.

Let's pretend on Sundays we talked to god who always listened but was never really there.

I wish we could pretend forever.

Even in my dreams, I have nightmares.

You see years later, the cornfield would become a mall and we would drift apart.

Years later, Fourth street would be renamed and Barcelona would be a fantasy.

Years later, when we could afford good wine and found it easier to buy our own cigarettes, when stars and heartbeats and infinity were all things that could no longer be calculated.

Years later, when laughter became a novelty and god became a memory we would roll their own cigarettes and dream... Just in case the other still followed the sandman.

For you, I always would.

Because dreams are all I have left. So let's keep pretending.

Just say the words and mean them. Let me look into your eyes and know them. Eyes tell all, remember? Tell me and I'll follow. Do you have any idea how hard that is for me to say (again? I have been near here before, in a different life). Look into my eyes and know: tell me and I'll follow. Whichever direction you decide, pull (or push) me, I'll follow. I promise. Take my hand and I'll follow your lead.

Where do we go from here, my love?

We go forward. We embrace the past and never forget, it all a transformation.

And so,for what I fear is the last time, I give you my love, my heart and soul.

They were always yours anyways.

Don't forget to live. These letters have been my release, I hope you find yours.

I love you forever. You know that, right?

In this life and beyond,

~Bella

**AN: Don't kill me yet! I'm sorry for making you wait so long and I keep getting the feeling I'm missing something in this, so if you have any questions, drop me a line and I'll try to answer them.**

**One more chapter to go...**


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